TitaniumTi
Well-Known Member
This is a continuation of the scene I posted yesterday. I've started with the last paragraph of that post.
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Below, the three bikes slowed. Caleb could see his friends looking about and just had time to think, disbelievingly, he missed, when Andy hurtled backwards off his bike and lay still, half obscured by drifting dust.
No. Caleb stepped forward but he was too late and too far away to save Andy. He was too far away, too, to save Matt and Jake, as that strange, dark weapon lifted again like a fist, to point at them. They were off their bikes now and Matt was walking towards Andy, helmet in hand.
“Watch out! Get down,” he shouted, the force of his voice burning his throat, but he knew it was useless.
He saw the man pause, half lowering his weapon, and turn to look up the hill. He couldn’t have seen the man’s eyes narrow, or the gaze fix intently on his, not at that distance. The weapon swung round, lifting again, to point at him and Caleb flung himself sideways, downwards, into the shallow crevice behind the rock.
He lay there, gasping in the dust. He fought down the urge to cough, and waited. He felt the screech before he heard it. It ripped through him like an itch, like a pain, an indescribable sensation. When it was done, he felt its echoes through his bones and thought, What now? What do I do?
The cutting pain in his back came moments later. It was small in comparison to the wrenching in his bones, but sharp enough to make him reach his hand to it before he realised the danger of being seen. He pulled his hand back hastily, and stared disbelievingly at the blood on his fingers. He closed his eyes, as much against his thoughts as against the sight of blood or the sting of sweat running into his eyes. He got me. But how? How could he get me here, from down there. Then, savagely, What does it matter how? He didn’t really get you. Not like he got Andy. But he will if you just lie here.
He was bunching himself to move, when the sound came again and he froze. In its aftermath he heard another, smaller sound, just ahead of him, and he lifted his head to stare in disbelief at the silver dart half-embedded in the dust in front of him. How did matter, he realised, because there was no way that dart could have landed there, at that angle, unless it came through solid rock. And if it came through solid rock, there was no safety for him where he lay, or anywhere.
He really needed to move. He couldn’t lie there, like a rabbit in its scratch, waiting for the hunter to find him. The next dart might get him, whether he moved or lay still, but death was certain if he didn’t escape.
He slithered forward, keeping low. Small target. Small target. The sound came again but he kept creeping, ignoring the half-felt sting of nettles. He didn’t get me that time, he thought in relief, and kept moving.
Too soon, Caleb reached the end of the rocky ledge and looked in dismay at the open slope ahead, trying to figure the angles and remember the lie of the land. The man might guess where he was but he probably couldn‘t see him behind the rock or he would be dead already. Caleb would be in line of sight of the man as soon as he moved from behind the rock and it was a good twenty metres to the next cover. The length of a cricket pitch, he thought. I can do it. The shots seemed to be coming at regular intervals, so he waited until the next screech built to full intensity then hurtled forward. A cricket pitch didn’t have rocks that twisted his feet or weeds that snagged his ankles but the rush of adrenalin drove him on and he threw himself forward, painfully sliding the last few metres into the gully, just as the ripping sound came again.
He landed hard, feeling his skin tear as he rolled and fell down further levels of rock and clay to land, winded, in the dry dust of a creek bed. Home, he thought, then grimaced because this was no game of cricket and he was not safe at the wicket. It wouldn’t take the man long to run across the slope to the rim of the gully and, when he did, Caleb would be as vulnerable as a mouse in an empty feed drum.
Below him, the gully twisted to the east at a clump of wattles, then jinked sharply downhill again where the bushes ended. If he could get that far, he would be safer. He leapt and ran down the slope, not bothering to keep low. He would be well hidden from the stranger, or not hidden at all. He let gravity and his mass pull him forward, downwards, and he followed the twisting line of the watercourse, looking down, picking his path through gutters and rocks.
He saw Matt’s feet first, half concealed beneath a straggle of lantana, and he was past him before he could stop.
**********************************************************
Below, the three bikes slowed. Caleb could see his friends looking about and just had time to think, disbelievingly, he missed, when Andy hurtled backwards off his bike and lay still, half obscured by drifting dust.
No. Caleb stepped forward but he was too late and too far away to save Andy. He was too far away, too, to save Matt and Jake, as that strange, dark weapon lifted again like a fist, to point at them. They were off their bikes now and Matt was walking towards Andy, helmet in hand.
“Watch out! Get down,” he shouted, the force of his voice burning his throat, but he knew it was useless.
He saw the man pause, half lowering his weapon, and turn to look up the hill. He couldn’t have seen the man’s eyes narrow, or the gaze fix intently on his, not at that distance. The weapon swung round, lifting again, to point at him and Caleb flung himself sideways, downwards, into the shallow crevice behind the rock.
He lay there, gasping in the dust. He fought down the urge to cough, and waited. He felt the screech before he heard it. It ripped through him like an itch, like a pain, an indescribable sensation. When it was done, he felt its echoes through his bones and thought, What now? What do I do?
The cutting pain in his back came moments later. It was small in comparison to the wrenching in his bones, but sharp enough to make him reach his hand to it before he realised the danger of being seen. He pulled his hand back hastily, and stared disbelievingly at the blood on his fingers. He closed his eyes, as much against his thoughts as against the sight of blood or the sting of sweat running into his eyes. He got me. But how? How could he get me here, from down there. Then, savagely, What does it matter how? He didn’t really get you. Not like he got Andy. But he will if you just lie here.
He was bunching himself to move, when the sound came again and he froze. In its aftermath he heard another, smaller sound, just ahead of him, and he lifted his head to stare in disbelief at the silver dart half-embedded in the dust in front of him. How did matter, he realised, because there was no way that dart could have landed there, at that angle, unless it came through solid rock. And if it came through solid rock, there was no safety for him where he lay, or anywhere.
He really needed to move. He couldn’t lie there, like a rabbit in its scratch, waiting for the hunter to find him. The next dart might get him, whether he moved or lay still, but death was certain if he didn’t escape.
He slithered forward, keeping low. Small target. Small target. The sound came again but he kept creeping, ignoring the half-felt sting of nettles. He didn’t get me that time, he thought in relief, and kept moving.
Too soon, Caleb reached the end of the rocky ledge and looked in dismay at the open slope ahead, trying to figure the angles and remember the lie of the land. The man might guess where he was but he probably couldn‘t see him behind the rock or he would be dead already. Caleb would be in line of sight of the man as soon as he moved from behind the rock and it was a good twenty metres to the next cover. The length of a cricket pitch, he thought. I can do it. The shots seemed to be coming at regular intervals, so he waited until the next screech built to full intensity then hurtled forward. A cricket pitch didn’t have rocks that twisted his feet or weeds that snagged his ankles but the rush of adrenalin drove him on and he threw himself forward, painfully sliding the last few metres into the gully, just as the ripping sound came again.
He landed hard, feeling his skin tear as he rolled and fell down further levels of rock and clay to land, winded, in the dry dust of a creek bed. Home, he thought, then grimaced because this was no game of cricket and he was not safe at the wicket. It wouldn’t take the man long to run across the slope to the rim of the gully and, when he did, Caleb would be as vulnerable as a mouse in an empty feed drum.
Below him, the gully twisted to the east at a clump of wattles, then jinked sharply downhill again where the bushes ended. If he could get that far, he would be safer. He leapt and ran down the slope, not bothering to keep low. He would be well hidden from the stranger, or not hidden at all. He let gravity and his mass pull him forward, downwards, and he followed the twisting line of the watercourse, looking down, picking his path through gutters and rocks.
He saw Matt’s feet first, half concealed beneath a straggle of lantana, and he was past him before he could stop.